


dirty laundry

by canticle



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Morgana is there for like 2 seconds, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sloppy Makeouts, Yes., ryuji/akira/washing machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: Akira gets up close and personal with a washing machine. Ryuji helps.
Relationships: Kurusu Akira/Sakamoto Ryuji
Comments: 16
Kudos: 409





	dirty laundry

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY QUARANTINE! this has been in my drafts since i finished it in january. can you guess why?

“If you don’t get rid of this laundry by the time I’m back,” Morgana says, tail lashing back and forth angrily, “you won’t like what I’m going to do about it.” 

Before Akira can respond, before Ryuji can do anything but sputter, he slips out the window and onto the awning below, off to go do whatever pissed-off quasi-cats do when they’re not  _ ruining Akira’s date night.  _

But he’s right; between his jobs and figuring out Futaba’s palace Akira’s been neglecting his laundry something fierce, and even though Sojiro hasn’t noticed yet and Ryuji’s been too polite to say anything, he knows there has to be some...funk in the air. Now that they’re through and all that’s left to do is wait for Futaba to wake up, he doesn’t have any excuse.

Not even date night.

They hadn’t even been planning much, coming back from a trip over to Big Bang Burger to play some video games, and then have a sleepover— and  _ that’s  _ got some charge to it, now that it’s  _ boyfriend  _ instead of  _ best friend,  _ now that there’s a weight to being alone with Ryuji in his attic, now that Ryuji’s hand on his back or his arm around his shoulders or his casual smirk after he pulls away from Akira and leaves him breathless mid-makeout has  _ intentions.  _ It’s still a new sort of thing, and they haven’t done much aside from kissing and some light petting (and Ryuji’s thigh slipping between his legs last time, pressed right up against Akira’s erection and making him gasp, both hands tightening in the fabric of Ryuji’s shirt—) 

Akira swallows, scrubs his fingers through his hair, and very pointedly puts that thought aside for a little while. Not the time, not the place. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’ve, uh…” 

“I get it, man, no worries,” Ryuji tells him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Lemme give you a hand, alright? We’ll get it done quick.” 

_ Give me a hand,  _ Akira repeats internally without conscious thought, and feels his cock twitch in his pants. Goddamn it. 

Being a teenager is suffering. Being a teenager with a constant roommate and a brand new boyfriend who smiles like the sun and has biceps like a golden god is doubly so. If Morgana didn’t insist on sleeping on his chest or curled up in the lee of his arm every night he might be able to adjust better but… 

When Ryuji turns to grab the laundry bag, he adjusts himself better and then strips the sheets off his bed as well. “The laundromat isn’t too far, just by the bathhouse.” 

“Cool,” Ryuji says, and so they haul all of Akira’s unmentionables (including all the garbage he’s accumulated from Mementos) and head downstairs.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes again once the first two loads are spinning merrily away, leaving at least two more on the floor in a sad, disappointing heap that really resembles the state of his life. “This isn’t any fun for you.” 

It’s not much fun for him either; he slumps over the top of the washer and nestles his cheek into the cradle of his arms. It thrums in a steady, washing-machine-like way beneath him, and he yawns. Thank god that school’s out for the summer, because his schedule’s been running him so ragged he can barely string two thoughts together half the time.

Work then the Metaverse, the Metaverse then work; juggling all his confidants like glass balls, desperate not to let any fall. He’s been sleeping less; the attic gets so stuffy at night, even with all the windows open and the fan chugging lazily away and Morgana’s furry body putting out more heat than something that size really should. His few moments of peace have been with Ryuji in his apartment, air conditioned and blissful, an ice pop in one hand and a manga volume in the other, sprawled on the floor next to his bed as Ryuji talks about his theories for the next book.

And also sprawled out  _ on  _ Ryuji’s bed, with Ryuji laid out above him, sucking hickies into his neck and doing his damndest to drive Akira out of his mind, intentional or not. Kissing Ryuji is his new favorite hobby and he wishes he had more time for it! They could be doing it right  _ now  _ if it wasn’t for his stupid laundry— 

There’s a presence at his back, and like a weighted blanket Ryuji folds himself over Akira’s shoulders, pinning him firmly to the machine, his arms bracketing Akira’s own and his chin hooked over Akira’s shoulders. “I said don’t worry about it! Just hanging out is cool with me. Besides, imagine how nice those clean sheets are gonna feel!”

Akira swallows, and very definitely doesn’t imagine how much they’ll smell like Ryuji by tomorrow morning.

Very definitely doesn’t imagine the feel of bare sheets on his back and bare Ryuji pressed up against his front, his thigh back between Akira’s legs and pressed deliciously up against— 

Uh. 

The washing machine’s vibrations have had him at an annoying half-chub almost since he leaned up against it, which, whatever, a stiff  _ breeze  _ can get him there at this point. But Ryuji’s weight against his back presses him up against it harder, so much so that there’s not really any room to lean back. There’s just the feel of Ryuji’s hips flush up against his butt, and. 

And.

And Ryuji’s arms, his fingers tapping along Akira’s knuckles, the smell of his deodorant wafting up off him like some sort of weird jock spice, his cheek pressed up against Akira’s jaw, the way his voice buzzes through his chest and into Akira’s back much like the way the washing machine does the same to his front, and an electric thrill shivers its way from the base of his  ~~ cock ~~ spine to the nape of his neck and. 

Hm. 

And the puff of air that hits the shell of his ear every time Ryuji speaks, and the way he just fits so well around him, and the way that if he wanted to, he could just slide a hand down Akira’s side and wedge it in between him and the washing machine that’s rumbling right up against his cock in a way that feels  _ way  _ too good, and.

Mm.

And Ryuji’s been talking about something all this time, but Akira hasn’t been listening, because the washer’s gone from rinse to spin, and this has to be the reason that unsatisfied housewives love doing laundry because he can’t move an inch, his whole boner’s trapped up against the rapidly agitating washer and Ryuji slips his fingertips into the divots of his knuckles and says something about bases and every hair follicle on Akira’s body stands just as on end as his dick is doing and he swallows desperately and

With a loud  _ chunk  _ the washer settles, and Ryuji peels himself off of Akira’s back to go around the front of the machine and empty its load, and Akira thanks any god that might be watching that he didn’t just empty a load himself.

Holy shit. Fuck. Damn. He takes a long, shivery breath and then a hasty glance down, and  _ yeah  _ he’s really fucking hard but maybe if he hunches over it won’t be as noticeable, and maybe Ryuji just won’t look below his shoulders or something?? 

His face is definitely burning as he crouches down to haphazardly shove the next load into the empty washer.

There’s no respite for him. Apparently Ryuji thought full-body vertical cuddles over the furniture were great, because he puts Akira right back where he was, splayed over the washer like Ryuji’s about to pull his pants down and slot between his thighs and— 

“So I know we just finished Futaba’s palace,” Ryuji says, then “ack, hair,” as Akira jerks with a startled noise. “Why’re you so jumpy?”

“Uh,” says Akira. 

“Guess it doesn’t matter, huh?” His fingers slot back between Akira’s own, which is great because Akira loves holding his hand, but sucks because it means that hand isn’t free to sneak under Akira’s shirt and splay up against his stomach and hold him in place while Ryuji grinds against his ass— 

_ Boy,  _ commercial washing machines sure do vibrate, don’t they? Akira’s already lightheaded again.

“What were you saying? Something about the Metaverse?” It’s much too late to save face but Akira has  _ some  _ dignity, and he’d really like to keep it, even as the thrum sets up in his bones and keeps that low, hot spark of pleasure burning in his gut. 

“Oh! Yeah!” He’s way too cheerful. His hand disengages and starts tapping between Akira’s knuckles again. “So I know we’ve got all these requests piling up, right? We haven’t been in in a while. Not since before Kaneshiro, right? Think we’ve got another door we can go through?” 

Work talk, work talk, Akira can do work talk. Work talk means not thinking about Ryuji’s finger tangling up in his bangs and curling his hair around his finger and wanting him to take his whole hand and put it into Akira’s hair and  _ pull—  _ “Ahm. Mmm. Probably.” Words, words, he can do words. One at a time, just string them along, and maybe if he keeps talking he can stop thinking about how badly he wants to come in his pants and make even more laundry to do. “Maybe this time it’ll be the end, right?”

“Yeah, maybe! These last few fights have been really hard—”

_ You don’t know anything about really hard, Ryuji, _

“— like really intense, yeah? We gotta go back in and get stronger before we face anything we can’t get past.”

“Mmm.”

“I think it’s probably gonna be really hard to get down as deep as we need to get, right?” 

God. 

“Mmhmm.”

“But if we work at it, we’ll definitely get to the bottom.”

_ Ryuji.  _

“Yeah.” 

“Hey, isn’t it weird that it’s been getting more humid down there lately? Feels like it should get colder the farther in we go, but it’s just gettin’ all hot and moist instead. Makes me wanna take all my clothes off ‘n air myself out, haha. I dunno how you can stand it in your coat all the time, man.”

Akira’s in hell. He’s in hell and he’s dying.

“You doin’ alright, Aki? You look like a stiff wind could blow you over.” Ryuji jostles against him just as the washer kicks into the spin cycle again, and  _ god  _ if he had any lesser amount of shame this would be when he did it, this would be the moment he lost it, but  _ no no no  _ he doesn’t want his first orgasm around Ryuji to go to a— a— a goddamned  _ washing machine,  _ he wants Ryuji’s hand on him and his tongue in his mouth and his thigh between his legs and he gasps in a breath of air like he’s drowning on dry land and Ryuji’s grasp tightens on his hand and his fingers slide through Akira’s hair and

And the washer judders to a stop.

This time he stays in place, his face buried in his arms, as Ryuji peels himself away again and leaves him cold. (Except for his boner, which is as heated as it has been for the past twenty minutes or so.) If he moves, he  _ knows  _ Ryuji will see how he’s red up to his ears, down to his neck. He should be helping, it’s so rude that he’s not helping, but he’s so frazzled and at a loss that he can barely keep his breathing even. 

“Looks like this is the last load!” Ryuji says cheerfully as he closes the washer’s door with a slap. “You’re lookin’ pretty beat, Aki, you think you can hang on until it’s finished?”

_ God,  _ he hopes so. He mumbles something, and tries not to shake as Ryuji settles up against him once more. 

Something’s different this time. Ryuji props himself up on his elbow instead of snuggling back down into Akira’s shoulder, occupying himself by starting to twist Akira’s hair into curls again. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is lower, somehow breathier. “When do you think Mona’s gonna come back?” 

Akira shrugs. Could be five minutes from now, could be dawn the next morning. From how mad he sounded, Akira’d be willing to bet on the latter. “Not for a while.”

There’s a thoughtful noise from beside him. He can’t stop the shiver this time as Ryuji tugs on the curl he’s holding. “Means we’ll be all alone up there, yeah?” 

Uh. 

“Yeah?” Akira very definitely does not squeak, his cock very definitely not knocking up against the side of the washer. “Yeah. Uh.”

“Cool.” There’s something warm in Ryuji’s voice, something Akira can’t listen too hard to or else he  _ will  _ come in his fucking pants, because that warmth i _ mplies things.  _ “Wanna put on a movie ‘n cuddle for a while? It should’ve cooled down with the fan in the window.” 

“Sure,” Akira says helplessly, because what else can he do?  _ Oh no Ryuji I can’t cuddle with you, my boner is too hard.  _ “Sounds great.” 

“Cool,” he says again, and plants a kiss on Akira’s temple. “It’s been a while since it’s been just us. Anything else you wanna do?” 

Hhhhhh. He can’t just  _ say  _ stuff like that, because then Akira’s mouth will open and disgorge every single filthy thing he wants Ryuji to do to him. He manages a shrug, so calm, very cool, wow. “You’re the guest. What do you want?” 

There’s a moment of silence. The washer kicks back into a higher gear, agitating the laundry like it’s agitating his feelings. Akira feels the vibrations starting to pick up again, and knows the face of true despair. 

He also feels Ryuji’s hips shift into him. 

He also feels— 

_ Is that Ryuji’s boner _

“What do I want?” Ryuji asks, thoughtful and teasing and heated and Akira  _ knows  _ that tone of voice, it’s the tone he gets when he’s hovering over Akira, when his thigh is between Akira’s leg and his tongue is in Akira’s mouth and Akira jerks his head up, panicked and so turned on he could die, just in time for Ryuji to bunt into his forehead and press a quick kiss to his lips. “I wanna get you off tonight,” he whispers against Akira’s mouth, low and intent. “You can tell me how, I just—”

Akira makes a noise like he’s been punched in the throat and shoves them both away from the washer, crumpling down to rest his forehead and knees and  _ not  _ his dick against it as Ryuji breaks into ugly, honking laughter. “Dude!” he crows, crouching down to where Akira methodically thunks his burning forehead into the side of the machine. “Aki, oh my  _ god,  _ did you just—”

“NO!” he yelps, then says it again more quietly. “No! You— Did you know—”

“How could I not?! You’ve been movin’ like you’re tryin’ not to pinch yourself in your zipper for like forty minutes, man, why didn’t you say something—” 

“Like what??” Akira wails, twisting his head to see Ryuji all but in tears on the floor next to him. 

“Like ‘ooh Ryuji this washer is sooo sexy, it turns me on sooo much—’” 

He shoves at him but Ryuji is already on his feet and hauling Akira up to pin him back-first up against the machine. He’s laughing; so is Akira, even if he can’t meet Ryuji’s eyes as he steps way, way,  _ way  _ into his space, his knee finding its perfect slot between Akira’s thighs once more. He makes a noise somewhere between a moan and a sob as Ryuji closes the distance, every inch of them pressed together. His mouth presses against Akira’s, tongue hot against his bottom lip and even hotter when it’s exploring the back of his teeth. Behind him the washer thumps along in time to his heartbeat, or the pulse in his dick. Or both.

“I don’t sound like that,” he manages to get out when Ryuji backs off just enough to let him breathe, “it wasn’t the washer, it was you—god, Ryuji, don’t touch me or I’m gonna— ”

“I meant it, y’know,” Ryuji says, breathless in a different way. “I wanna get you off, Aki, I really do, do you want me to do it here or wait—” 

“You—” Akira inhales, because the spike of lust that hits him like lightning goes straight to the base of his cock and he  _ almost loses it—  _ “we, we’re, this is, I mean, it’s public—” 

“There’s no one out here, and let’s face it, you’re not gonna make it up the stairs anyway— Akira, for real, can I?”

Akira loses the battle with his self control in one violent fell swoop. “Fuck,  _ please—” _ He barely gets the words out before Ryuji bends and hoists him up at the waist, setting him at the very edge of the washer.

Almost all his weight rests on the very edge, the very edge that’s vibrating right into his balls, and his hands are shaking too hard to go for his zipper but that’s okay because Ryuji’s aren’t, they’re deft and fast and big and warm and they get his cock out into the open and Akira almost cries with relief and pleasure when he strokes the underside with the backs of his knuckles.

“Can I blow you?” he asks, blunt as anything. The washer clicks off into silence, like it too is waiting for Akira’s answer.

Just the thought makes him shudder, his hands coming down to land hard on Ryuji’s shoulders, balling the fabric up in his fists. “If you do, I’ll die,” he says, remarkably even. “Please—” 

Ryuji laughs.

The washer makes a low whine and clicks over to the spin cycle.

It only takes about fifteen seconds for Akira to come, but it’s the most amazing fifteen seconds of his life. 

Ryuji’s mouth is so hot and wet and his  _ tongue  _ is just, it’s just, and his fingers are so warm and rough and foreign where they hold him steady and the washing machine vibrates  _ so hard  _ and this is, this is, it’s, oh god, oh god oh god oh  _ fuck oh fuck oh FUCK,  _ he doesn’t want it to end but Ryuji sucks a little just at the very tip and Akira can feel him  _ smile  _ and it’s too much, he’s whimpering, just a thin thready wail as he doubles over and his hips jerk and Ryuji makes a startled noise and sucks  _ harder—  _

He comes so hard he loses time, and only starts to register external input again when he realizes the washing machine is done its cycle and his head is tenderly tucked into a still-laughing Ryuji’s shoulder.

“Dude,” he says, his mouth pressed against Akira’s temple, still huffing laughter into his hair, “if it was that good for you maybe I oughta start doing laundry more at home!” 


End file.
